


Possession Is Nine-Tenths

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crowley having no filter with regards to their sex life, Don't copy to another site, Established Relationship, Fluff, Honeymoon, Humor, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), It's only Madame Tracy after all, M/M, Post-Canon, Romance, casual reference to Aziraphale wanting to jump Crowley's bones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-21 12:36:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22561027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: Aziraphale tries his best to dodge intimate questions from Tracy when she visits him in the South Downs on his honeymoon.Crowley, however, doesn't help matters when he finally wakes up and she sees what he's wearing.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 35
Kudos: 371





	Possession Is Nine-Tenths

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the idea that now that Aziraphale and Crowley are married, Crowley wears Aziraphale's sweaters and whatnot to bed. But maybe sweaters are not all Aziraphale owns XD Inspired by this post - https://wheeloffortune-design.tumblr.com/post/189293073920/all-of-aziraphales-sweaters-are-now-crowleys

“The South Downs, huh?” Tracy asks, those four words posing all the question she needs. As city dwellers the both of them, it does make sense. Translation: “I never thought you’d leave the hustle and bustle behind for green grass and horse shite.”

Tracy and Aziraphale may have only known one another a short time, but they shared a body. That includes sharing a mind. The cohabitation of another being’s vessel is not a clean business. Traces get left behind when one entity leaves, like muddy footprints on the linoleum floor of the hippocampus. Tracy knows how Aziraphale feels about his bookshop and Soho.

She knows why he moved there in the first place.

“Yes, well, it’s the farthest Crowley and I would consider traveling from our old lives. And for a while, that’s something we need.”

“Makes sense. Must be working. Married life looks good on you.”

Aziraphale smiles. “Thank you, my dear,” he says, pouring her tea. “I have to admit, I am quite enjoying myself.”

“I’ll bet,” she mutters as the word _enjoying_ brings a rosy glow to Aziraphale’s cheeks. Speaking of ... where’s Senor _Sexy_?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. He adds milk and sugar without having to be asked, then slides the finished product across the table. “To whom are you referring? The milk man? The post man? Your Uber driver?”

“You know who.” She lifts the tea to her lips, eyes twinkling through the steam rising from the surface. “Your _man._ ”

“He’s not a man, you know. He’s a _demon_.”

“If you’re trying to make him sound any less sexy, you’re failing miserably, my dear.”

“Since you _must_ know, he’s still asleep.”

“Mmm …” Tracy blows on her beverage, grinning into her cup “… _that_ kind of evening? Or was it morning?”

“You’re _incorrigible_ , do you know that?”

“And proud of it.”

“Good for you.”

“Tell me something.”

“That depends.” Aziraphale avoids Tracy’s eyes in favor of dressing his own cup.

“Your demon …” She leans in, lowering her voice in case Crowley isn’t a deep sleeper “… he sleeps in the nude, doesn’t he?”

Aziraphale fumbles his spoon. It falls on the saucer with a _clink,_ flinging droplets of milk across the tablecloth _._ “Why in the _world_ do you want to know!?”

“Because you’re not making with any of the juicier details, so I’m filling in the blanks with PG-13 stuff.”

Aziraphale narrows his eyes at his nosy guest. “And how is _your_ husband, by the way?”

“Not here. That’s why we’re talking about _yours_.”

Aziraphale shakes his head. “Not that it’s any of your business, but no. Crowley does _not_ sleep in the nude.”

Tracy frowns at Aziraphale’s answer. “Of course he does,” she decides, followed by several loud sips. “I’ve been around the block a time or two, and a man like that _definitely_ sleeps in the nude. You lucky dog.”

“If you think you know so much, why did you even ask!?”

“I wanted to see what you’d say. You seem to have a penchant for, shall we say, tiny untruths. As a sinner myself, I’m curious how often an angel can lie before they get struck by lightning as opposed to us mere mortals.”

Aziraphale’s brows pull together. “Have you ever been struck by lightning?”

“Once,” Tracy says, going in for another sip, “but I’m sure it was a misunderstanding.”

“Good morning, angel,” Crowley mumbles, shuffling into the room. “Lady Shadwell. How nice of you to stop by this morning.”

“Afternoon,” Aziraphale corrects.

“Hmph. Gotta be mornin’ somewhere,” Crowley says around a yawn.

“Well, well, speak of the Devil,” Tracy teases.

“Devil’s on holiday. The states, I think. Just me, I’m afraid. Got anything stronger than tea?” Crowley heads for the stove and its various saucepans, lifting the lids off the promising looking ones.

Aziraphale raises a white ceramic carafe sitting dead center of the table. “There’s coffee in the pot.”

Crowley peeks over. He raises his eyebrows, trying to better open his lids. When he catches sight of the carafe held aloft, he sighs. “Fan- _bloody_ -tastic.” He putters over, grabbing the largest mug they own along the way.

“Rough night?” Tracy asks, playing her favorite game where Aziraphale and Crowley are concerned - _Catching Aziraphale in a Lie Involving Sin._

“Not so much. Aziraphale is soft …” Crowley giggles “… squishy … and more flexible than he looks. First two goes went fine. I think it was round seven that did me in.”

Tracy snickers.

Crowley yawns, this time with the addition of a galumphing yawp.

Aziraphale’s nose dives back into his cup and stays there.

No, he didn’t try to stop the conversation before it got this far.

There’s no shutting these two up once they get started.

But Crowley manages to stop Tracy in her tracks.

“Shame on you, Aziraphale, keeping poor Crowley up all---.”

When Tracy gets her first glimpse of Crowley, her jaw drops to her chest.

Aziraphale sees why, and he knows he’s never going to hear the end of this one.

His husband, as always, has an exceptional sense of timing … and _style_.

Over the rim of his cup, which has become extremely interesting in the past few minutes, Aziraphale watches Tracy give his husband several once overs. He doesn’t intervene, letting Tracy ask the inevitable question herself.

“Uh …” She clears her throat. It doesn’t help “… what is that you’re wearing, dear?”

“What? _This_?” Crowley looks down his body as if he’s forgotten. Aziraphale hopes Tracy will. Probably not a chance without holy intervention. “It’s some shirt of Aziraphale’s from the 60s. I saw it in his closet and brought it with. You know, for going out. Thought it’d be a nice change from the usual.” He chuckles to himself, picking at the practically see-thru black mesh hanging from his body. “Not much to it, is there?”

“No, there isn’t.” Tracy’s voice cracks when Crowley shifts left and right, revealing the tiniest pair of briefs she’s ever seen on an adult human. And considering her prior profession, that’s saying a _lot._

“Don’t think angel ever wore it. _Didn’t let me see if he did …”_

“You don’t say.” Tracy shoots Aziraphale a look.

Aziraphale, hellbent on climbing into his cup, finishes his tea.

“The 60s were a helluva decade,” Crowley grumbles and leaves it at that. He leans over to kiss his husband’s beet-red forehead (much to Tracy’s delight), then walks off with the carafe, foregoing the mug and drinking straight from it. Tracy watches him go, the loose-fitting shirt (which most likely clings to Aziraphale) swinging with every sway of hips, the selvage skimming the tops of his thighs right below his ass. She waits until Crowley slips back into the bedroom and shuts the door, then turns accusing eyes on her friend.

“You _lied_!”

Aziraphale tuts. “I did no such thing.”

“Did you not see what your husband was wearing?”

“Yes. _Wearing,”_ Aziraphale says, cheeks burning since his mind chose that exact moment to imagine peeling that mesh shirt off his husband’s body and doing a host of unspeakable things to him as soon as Tracy leaves _._ “Ergo … not naked.”


End file.
